


After Entropy

by arsenicarose



Category: Criminal Minds, Spencer Reid - Fandom
Genre: Cat is only quoted, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s11e11 Entropy, F/M, M/M, Spencer needs support, Spencer's Fear of His Mind, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 01:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11369820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenicarose/pseuds/arsenicarose
Summary: This piece is set right after Season 11, Episode 11, "Entropy." It explores how I think Spencer would handle his grief if he wasn't allowed to be alone and immobile for weeks.Direct spoilers up until the mentioned episode.





	After Entropy

“Reid. Reid! SPENCER!” you call, banging on his door.

“Please, Y/N, not right now.”

“Spence, please…”

“I’m serious, I just want to be alone!”

“You have been alone! Open the door!”

Spencer opens the door wide. His hair is disheveled, and he is wearing the outfit you saw him in last, tie partially undone. “What?!”

You shrink away from the anger of his words, but hold your ground. “Spencer, please, let me in.”

“I just need to be alone right now.”

“No, you don’t! You don’t need to deal with this alone.”

“I  _ want _ to be alone.”

“I. Don’t. CARE.” You push inside to see his apartment is a mess, books torn from their shelves and strewn everywhere.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You place a gentle hand on his shoulder, knowing how he feels about tactile comfort. “I know. We don’t have to talk. You just don’t need to be alone right now.”

You see him resign himself to it. The last time this happened, with Maeve, you had let him be. You weren’t dating at the time, and you thought he truly did need his space. But you had watched what the time alone had done to him. He was affected by it for a long time, unable to shake the grief that painted his empty apartment. It showed in the forceful smiles that faded when he thought no one was looking, and in the clear lack of sleep that left dark ghosts under his eyes. This time, Spencer would not be alone.

Now inside, you simply open a book and sit. Not ignoring him, but giving him space. You had seen him become angry or depressed before, and you knew what to do. You would just exist near him until he was ready.

He curls up on the couch, probably where he was before you came in, and lays there for hours.

After some time, you hear his stomach growl. You don’t know how long it has been since he has eaten. You set your book aside, and, without looking at him, begin to make a meal. When it is done, you set down a plate for him by the couch, and resume your reading while eating some yourself.

As it starts to get cold, he pushes himself off the couch and eats some. When he eats as much as he is able, he sinks back into the couch. You clear the plate without a word, storing the leftovers for later, and sit back down.

He goes to the bathroom at some point. Your eyes flick to his back as he trudges through the living room, but you let them rest on your book again. When he is finished, he goes back to his couch.

After a few more hours, he falls asleep. You lean back in the chair and let yourself drift off as well. You want to be awake when he is, just in case.

When he finally wakes up, you have been awake for hours. You ate leftovers, relieved yourself, and continued reading. You only know that he has woken up by the changes in his breathing. He does not move for an hour, before finally needing to go to the bathroom. When you hear the shower running, you make him breakfast.

A plate is waiting for him at the couch when he emerges. He has changed into pajamas and a long robe. He finishes his plate this time, before curling up on the couch.

After several more hours, he whispers, “Would you still love me if I lost my mind?”

“Of course, Spencer. I will love you until your last day."

He says nothing in reply.

One sleep, three meals, and several trips to the bathroom later, he says, “How long will I live in fear of my brain?”

He prefers realism to pretty lies, so you reply, “Probably your entire life. You were given an amazing gift, and you would have always be afraid to lose it, even without your mother. I am afraid to lose my brain too, and my body. Aging is scary Spencer. Especially when you have to witness it.”

“What can I do about my mother?”

“Love her through it all. Don’t hold anything against her. Have patience. Live for the good days and tolerate the bad. Smile for her. Live your life for her.”

He nods, and recurls himself. You think he is making good progress.

The next quip comes quickly. “Do you know what Cat said to me?”

You set your book aside, preparing for the weight of the conversation. “Which time?”

“In the police car, right before it drove off.”

“No, I didn’t hear.”

“She told me that she had won. She would get out of prison eventually. She said, ‘In 20 years, I’ll remember your name, but you won’t remember mine.’” His voice is thick as he says this. It must have been eating at him since her capture.

You want to tell him this is why he needs to talk to people about things. This is why he can’t hide everything from everyone. If Cat hadn’t drawn the information out about his mother, none of the team would have known. No one would know about what she said to him in the car, except you, him, and Cat, because he wouldn’t tell anyone. He lets things fester.

You can’t tell him all this though. He probably already knows it. Instead, you say, “That’s not necessarily true. You have more time than you think,  _ if _ you have early onset dementia. You don’t have schizophrenia, and you thought you might for a long time. There are ways to combat dementia, even the genetic kind. And she left out the most important thing.”

“What was that?”

“While you may get dementia, she  _ will  _ go to prison. She won’t get out in 20 years, and you will be living your life, not in a cell. You will get more years than she will. And while you may be losing your parents, at least you know where they are.”

“That is harsh, Y/N.”

“But true. And you need to hear it. You played games with her, but she played them with you too. Don’t let her get in your head. The game is over. She lost.”

“What if I do get dementia, Y/N? What if I lose my mind.” He sits up abruptly, to gesture around the room. “What good are books if I can’t read them? What do I do without an eidetic memory? What good is a genius IQ if I can’t use it?”

“You are more than that, Spence. Those things are important, but you are more than that.”

“But dementia would take it all away!”

“I know.”

“God, I’m so scared. What do I do?”

“Live one day at a time. Make memories while you know you have them. Read over and over until the pages are burned in your brain. Study people’s faces until you can read their lines like those in a book. Don’t let yourself spiral over what might be. Live in what is.”

“I don’t know if I can…”

“I know it is difficult, but think of how much time you spent worrying about the schizophrenic break that never came. It isn’t a waste of time to plan ahead, but be careful.”

“Plan ahead?”

“If you are really worried about dementia, make plans. Write a will, decide how far you want to go, put your affairs in order, maintain your plans until you can’t. But remember this, Spencer: You have time. You are too young to test for it. You won’t have to face this for at least a few years.”

He lies back on the couch, and doesn’t reply.

While you cook the next meal, he joins you. He doesn’t help. He just stands near you while you prepare food, and eats it when it is ready. Baby steps.

When he is done eating, you ask, “Would you like to put away the books now?”

“Yeah, that would be good.”

The shelves fill up as you carefully organize his collection. He relishes in his memory abilities in this moment, knowing exactly where the books belong. He gives a quote from each book he has read as he puts them away, just to show he can. The apartment looks much better for the cleaning.

“Do you want to sleep in a bed tonight?” you ask.

He simply nods and heads toward his bedroom. You head to your chair, but you hear him call out, “Y/N… Will you… Please, join me?”

You sleep next to each other in his bed that night, not touching. It is far more comfortable than the chair.

The next morning, he is awake before you. You smell food cooking in the kitchen, and you pull yourself toward it.

“I don’t mind cooking for you, you know,” you say, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“I know.”

You play chess after breakfast, and he seems to be doing better. Sometimes, you see sadness and fear grip him, but he gives you smiles.

“Spencer, you don’t need to hide it from me. Let it out. Burying it won’t make it easier to deal with.”

“Let what out? I don’t know what I need, or if I even need anything.”

It’s time. You walk over to him and wrap your arms around him. This is his breaking point, right before he shoves it all down. 

He reacts as you would expect, initially, with confusion and alarm. But he embraces you and holds you close to him, need outweighing pride. The sudden embrace startles his control, and you hear him sob above you.

You hold him as he lets it all go. The sobs multiply until they became ragged, but you say nothing. You let the storm come.

When he has no more tears left, he just holds you a little longer, dry sobs wracking his body until he has nothing left. Only then do you let go.

“Do you feel better?” you ask.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“You know that tears can be cathartic, Spence.”

“Yes, but I sometimes forget it applies to…”

“To you?”

He sighs, frustrated and embarrassed. “Yes, to me.”

“I’m here if you ever need a shoulder to cry on.”

“I know… Thank you for sitting with me.”

“Of course, Spence. I don’t want you to have to go through this alone. You don’t have to. The team would be here for you too, you know. You just have to tell them things.”

“I know, but I don’t know if I can.”

“Then I will just have to be here to wait it out.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too.”


End file.
